Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

Estelle frowned. “And the uncle lists a post office box in Las Cruces as an address. Had he moved here, do you know?”

“I don’t know that. I guess that I just assumed that he had.”

The counselor’s voice had taken on an edge and Estelle held up a hand. “Please, I’m not being critical of your procedures, Ms. Hyde. I understand that this is a public institution.” She smiled that wonderful, warm, electric smile that lit up her otherwise dark features. “What was it that Mr. Gordon used to say to all the kids who tried to ditch his American History class…‘If you don’t walk through the door, I won’t have to try to teach you.’”

Ms. Hyde almost smiled, and so did I. Every one of my own four children had suffered through Wyatt Gordon’s classes. If they ever ditched, they had the sense not to tell me.

“The only paperwork that a student absolutely has to have before they’re allowed to continue coming to school is their immunization record. That’s state law.”

“Maria had hers?”

Ms. Hyde shook her head. “She said that her other school had the copy and would be sending it.”

“Is that something that you check up on fairly quickly?” I asked.

“Dawn Paddock would.”

“We’ll check with her,” I said, then added, “in the few days that you’ve had the opportunity to work with her, did Maria seem to have any particular circle of friends? Anyone she talked to?”

“No, and that’s something we work on. The person who could tell you more is Maria’s Spanish teacher, Roland Marquez.”

“Do you want me to call him in here?” Archer said, rising from his chair. A knock interrupted us, and Archer crossed to the door and opened it. “Ah, good. Thanks, Denny,” he said, accepting the parking book and copies from the office aide. He closed the door and handed the copies to me.

“Yes,” I said. “We’d like to meet with Mr. Marquez briefly. But before we do, I have a request.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t mean to be unreasonable, but when we request information, would it be possible for it to go directly from you to us, rather than by way of the students?”

Archer frowned and looked perplexed. “I don’t follow.”

I held up the copies. “The young man who made these. I assume he’s a student?”

Archer opened his mouth to say something, and before any sound came out, the light came on in his head. “And I’m sorry. I just now realized. The contents of the book aren’t confidential, but there’s certainly no need for anyone to know that you requested those contents.”

“Exactly,” I said. “He talks, and then and then and then. And pretty soon, if we’re not careful, the killer knows what move we’re making before we make it. I’d rather that didn’t happen.”

Archer took another deep breath and I felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He glanced at his watch. “I really need to say something this morning on the announcements. Any suggestions?”

I glanced at Estelle and then at the poster on the wall behind her. The bold red letters announced 101 WAYS TO PRAISE A CHILD. “Glen, that’s your department. I’m not much into warm fuzzies or sugar-coating explanations.” I heaved myself to my feet. “You might tell ’em that if anyone goes behind the school and crosses the crime scene ribbon, they’ll be arrested. Other than that, I can’t think of a thing. Unless you think it would work to say, ‘Will the useless son of a bitch who killed Maria Ibarra come to the office immediately.’”

Glen Archer winced and looked at Patricia Hyde. “I wish it would be that easy.”

“So do we, Glen. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Let us know if you hear anything.”

We didn’t spend long with Dawn Paddock. I got the impression that her reaction to our presence was to protect her turf. It was neat turf, with precisely lettered labels and color-keyed folders, filled with whatever information school nurses collect in their off moments between patching up the losers of hallway brawls. But she had never met Maria Ibarra. She had no records, immunization or otherwise, for the girl.

“You know,” Ms. Paddock said, and stuck a pencil into her hair bun as if that ended that, “we can’t force them to bring in their records.”

“I understand that,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said quietly. “How long does the school generally give them? Before they’re no longer admitted.”

“To get their shots, you mean? Well, the state says that if they don’t have up-to-date immunization records, they can’t be allowed in school, period. Not one day. But…” And she hesitated and shrugged.

“But obviously they are,” I said.

“If nothing is forthcoming in a week or two at most, then we call the parents and have them come in and pick up their child. We tell the parents face-to-face that the child may not return until we have a note from the physician stating that their immunizations are current.”

“And that wasn’t done with Maria Ibarra?” I asked.

“Not yet.” She turned and scanned the files again in the open top drawer of the cabinet, her fingers pausing in the I-J-K section. “As you can see, I haven’t even received the registration papers on the young lady. I don’t have a folder for her. When I do, then the process starts.”

Estelle was frowning, maybe at Paddock’s cheerful implication that someday she would receive a file folder on Maria Ibarra. “It seems like it should be a straightforward process,” she said.

“It would be very simple if all children had responsible parents,” Ms. Paddock said. “But they don’t.”

“Or parents at all,” Estelle muttered, and she turned quickly toward the door. I thanked Nurse Paddock and followed Estelle out into the hallway. She leaned against the wall, her shoulder against one of the lockers. Down the hallway a solitary student disappeared into one of the classrooms and then the place was quiet. Estelle squinted at the floor as if she were counting the polished tiles.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

She blinked a couple of times and then shut her eyes. “I can’t believe this,” she said finally. “A child is murdered sometime early in the evening, but no one calls to report her missing.” She tipped her head back and stared at the white acoustical ceiling tiles. “And then we come here and find that their records of this girl are all but nonexistent. They don’t know who she was living with, or where, or anything else.” She turned to glare at me. “Do you think that they would have bothered to put her on the absentee list today if her body hadn’t been found?”

“I’m not sure that’s fair, Estelle.”

Her laugh was bark short. “Neither is being murdered.”

The door behind me opened and interrupted my reply. The nurse beckoned. “There’s a call for you on line one, sir. You can take it in my office if you like.”

Estelle Reyes-Guzman hadn’t moved a step when I rejoined her.

With a hand on her elbow, I started down the hallway. “They think they found Miguel Orosco,” I said. “I know who they found, and I hope to hell they’re wrong.” Estelle looked puzzled, but fell in step.

***

We drove into the gravel driveway of the Ranchero mobile home park. As the crow flew, the place was less than a quarter mile from my own home on Guadalupe Terrace. But that quarter mile was a world away. The manager of the park, if he was home, didn’t come out to greet us.

At the far end of the park, beyond the last trailer, I saw Sergeant Torrez’s patrol car. As we idled to a stop, Torrez got out and pointed toward the interstate embankment behind the hedgerow. That wasn’t what he meant, though.

“Somebody lives back there?” Estelle asked as we got out of the car.